Of Choice, Chance, and Fate
by elusivesilvercrystal
Summary: OVERHAUL IN PROGRESS. Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, and Hermione Granger predict the future in vastly different ways. Dumbledore believes it is choices which ultimately define the future. Severus believes that it is nothing but a figment of chance. Hermione... Hermione believes it is both, but she would be damned if there weren't a bit of it that wasn't fate, too.


**A/N: This was the beginning of a fic that sort of took me by storm and then... stopped making any sense. I had a vision for it, then another, then I combined the visions, and then it got muddled, so I am going to split these two up into two separate stories, as I should have from the beginning. I am going to take down all of the other chapters, and leave this here as a one shot until whenever I finish the rest. Sorry, guys :(. I should have the other chapters back up, soon, with the story titled The Sins of Our Fathers.**

Of Choice, Chance, and Fate (or maybe: Ode, the Joys of Divination!)

 **Summary:** _Hermione Granger just wanted to see the future, so she could help Harry win the war. Instead she saw her potions master's life flash before her eyes and vehemently warned him about it, incurring his wrath in the process. That wasn't the problem, really, considering he was always angry about something or other. What really bothered her was what she saw proceeding the war which he (grudgingly) survives… after all, who wouldn't question seeing themselves loving such a caustic, unforgiving, misery of a man?_

 _She might have been more concerned, if she hadn't seen it herself… and if she wasn't already halfway there thanks to a botched love potion, a meddling centaur, and a little thing called Fate._

 _Ode, the joys of Divination! How she loathed it, especially when it wasn't as faulty as she believed it to be._

 _Going to be mostly post-war._

 **And here we are: some pieces of the past. Sorry, not sorry... Lily/Severus is as important to me as Hermione/Severus. It will make sense one day.**

·

Prologue

·

 _January 10, 1976_

"Psst, Sev!"

Severus kept his eyes trained on the silver knife he wielded, refusing to let the beautiful redhead think that she could just snatch his attention whenever she pleased. Still, at the sound of her voice through the fog of his thoughts, his traitorous heart thumped in his chest more quickly.

"Seeeeeeverus," she crooned at him, despite his refusal to lift his head or indicate in any way that he had heard her.

Of course, he could not _not_ hear her. She was speaking directly to him. That, and a part of him knew that he unconsciously listened for her voice, always.

"Obstinacy doesn't suit you, Sev," she murmured lightly.

He grunted in response, to which she stood up, causing him to finally look her way. The girl he saw was much changed from when they first met: still willowy, but blossoming in ways he knew did not go unnoticed by the other boys in their class, let alone someone as observant as he was. Even then, his eyes burned to trail downwards. He could feel some of the other males looking her way, while also casting him envious, hateful looks for managing to keep her as his partner for the past five years.

Of course, they would want her. She was all clean, perfect skin, and pretty lashes and full lips. Violently red hair fell in waves over her shoulders and bright green eyes looked out at the world towards him, oblivious to the others in the class that vied for her affections.

Bugger them all—she might be nice to them because for whatever reason she was a nice person, but she was _his_ friend.

"Do sit down, Evans," he hissed, glaring at his dorm mate, Urquhart, behind her whose eyes slid lower than they should have. His wand was in his hand in seconds, pointed at him.

She glanced at it and did not turn around. She pursed her lips, accosting him with a glare that could rival his own, daring him to hex whoever it was that had insulted him. He clenched his teeth, sent the boy a venomous look which he knew would result in a duel later, then returned his wand to its place safely in reach.

What went on in the Slytherin Common Room would not bother Lily Evans' pretty little head. He might not defend her honor outright, but he had his ways.

"I knew you could hear me," she murmured, the threatening wand forgotten.

"Of course I could. I'm nowhere near deaf," he recited dryly, "I merely _chose_ to ignore you."

"I suppose that's worse, isn't it?"

He smirked down at the page, "Yet somehow less punishment than you deserve for being so bothersome."

When she kicked him under the table, he grunted and swiveled to face her and hissed, "What was that for?"

"I wanted to show you something interesting, you dunderhead," she murmured, pouting in mock hurt, "And instead of being thankful and attentive to your dear friend, you're being a git."

"Hardly more than usual," he rolled his eyes at her, then urged her on with a wave of his hand, "What is it that is so _interesting_ , then?"

Now certain he was paying attention to her, she snatched the squirming bean from the jar they shared, and promptly took the flat of her knife and squished it down. It hadn't had enough time to hop out of her fingers as it would have while slicing, but was as neutralized as much as it would have been at the sharp end of the knife.

Severus glared down at his tiny pile, half the size of hers—he'd managed to slice them expertly, without losing any, but the method she was showing was far more effective and less time-consuming. He did not copy her, simply because he knew it would annoy her to not do so, but made a mental note to employ the method when she was not watching him like a hawk.

"Hmph," she mumbled when he continued his slicing, but smiled at him good-naturedly, in that way that suggested she knew what he was thinking—he agreed with her, but was too proud to let her know it. As a boy, he would have squirmed under such scrutiny… now nearly a man, he simply set his jaw and ignored her.

Still, when her eyes remained on him, his skin began to itch and he lifted his gaze to glare at her. She held his gaze expertly, keeping her face smiling mysteriously, taunting him to say something menacing to her.

Although he would have preferred not to, his lips twitched at the same moment hers did. Her smile broadened and he dropped his head again, hiding beneath his curtain of hair, obscuring his horrible teeth from her. Although he was not a vain person, believing intellect to be far worthier than beauty, he found himself growing more self-conscious in her presence as the years passed.

He knew why, but he had no idea how he was going to tell her, as he had only come to the conclusion himself in the recent weeks. His cheeks reddened at the thought and he returned to his work, drowning out the guffawing laughs of Black and Potter from across the room. A quick glance determined that their focus was thankfully their tagalong leech, Pettigrew, and not himself. Still, he kept his eyes on them, making certain they weren't planning anything for him.

Being in the same room was risk enough. He couldn't wait until the next year—neither of them had any hope of passing their exams to be admitted to Advanced Potions. Then he'd have Lily all to himself… not that she paid much attention to the baffoons anyway, and thank Merlin for that. But sometimes she was cordial to them, as house mates were, and it angered him.

When he made a glance back to her, Lily was sending them a disapproving look, her emerald eyes rolling. When she caught him watching, he pursed his lips. She stuck her tongue out at him and he sniffed disapprovingly.

"Oh, you are _such_ a stick in the mud!" She taunted.

He merely quirked a brow.

She continued, hands on hips, not caring that they were covered in the (harmless) juices of the beans, "I'm Severus and I'm oh so very serious and solemn and can't be bothered to have the slightest bit of a laugh while I'm brewing such a… _delicate_ potion. If I smile even a tad I'll spontaneously combust and ruin the potion I have hardly started… and I've _never_ ruined a potion in my life. Ahem—scowl… sneer… scowl, scowl— _super scowl._ "

His expression must have been humorously dark, because she stopped reciting and giggled. When she noticed his perturbed frown, she stopped smiling, looking concerned.

Rather than let her think she'd affected him, he shoved at her lightly when she leaned towards him with a grimace. She let herself fall in the direction he had pushed her, giggling once more. When their eyes met, they both knew he meant her no harm and that his playfulness was more than welcomed by her.

Only with her, he promised… no one else deserved to see such a side of him.

"There it is," she muttered, reaching out to push his hair out of his eyes, "That smirk could melt the iciest of hearts, I tell you."

He immediately stilled, his heart beating too loudly in his ears to care. Although she'd pushed his hair out of his eyes a thousand times, he couldn't help but feel boneless when her fingers brushed even the barest centimeter of his skin, knowing his feelings towards her.

Sensing his stiffness, her eyes darted away from his, her cheeks turning pink, before she snatched her hand away and began to busy herself lighting the cauldron and preparing the rest of the ingredients.

Similarly, he turned his back to her and started his.

He would deny it to everyone, but he enjoyed Lily's company. Their bond was hardly beneficial to him—in fact, it had caused him much grief over the past five years. But he endured it, because… well, because she was precious to him. She was his first and only friend, and he could not imagine a life without her.

She drove him barmy at times, but less so than anyone else. And even though he would often threaten to hex her if she did not leave him alone, they both knew he would rather suffer an Unforgivable than see her come to harm.

He was beginning to think that maybe he loved her, although he hardly knew what that meant. He'd not known much love in his love, but the way Lily treated him felt like what he thought it should feel like.

"What are you thinking about?" Not one for silence, she butted into his space once more, pondering the musings of his head as she often did.

"Nothing that you could wrap your flimsy brains around, Evans," he growled.

She stared at him, her green eyes all-seeing, "You'd be surprised what I could wrap my brains around, _Snape_."

She then cleared her throat and returned to her own work.

Luckily, his hair covered his ears and face, or else she would see the blush that bloomed over him. They did not speak for the rest of the period.

·

 _February 10, 1976_

"So I was thinking… if I can't make a decision myself, perhaps a bit of magic might help. And I know you put no faith in Divination, but there's no else I know who could help me brew this potion better than you… 'fanciful inaccurate mysticism' asides, Slughorn even agreed that _Ponderirani_ _Nazire_ is reputably accurate!"

He snorted in response at such a ridiculous name, earning a glare from his companion.

"Severus!"

"You said it yourself, Evans," he reminded her, quirking a brow, "I put no faith in Divination—even when it is paired with the art of Potions and given a fancy title."

She frowned, "Well, what else am I supposed to do? I have no idea what I want to be!"

He was silent. They'd had this conversation so many times before and she knew what he would suggest. But she wouldn't want to hear his advice, as it did not suit her opinions. Still, he couldn't very well tell her that without her swatting him away… so he let her speak and pretended to listen, eager to milk the visit to the Restricted Section for all it was worth.

She knew how to bribe him properly, at least.

"Well, I'm doing it with or without you."

"Naturally," he replied. She began to explain the process, reciting the necessary ingredients. He half-listened, but was more focused on the books in front of him than her buttery voice.

She'd somehow decided that magic would decide her future for her and had tracked down a recipe for a potion that would give her a glimpse of it. Although skeptical that it was true (he hated Divination with a passion), he'd learned long ago not to begin an argument with her about the subject.

 _Read this already… and this—own this._

He trailed fingers over the spine of a particularly menacing looking book, then plucked it from the stack. He perused in silence, adding to his mildly tall tower as she trailed behind him.

"We'll have to do it in secret, of course—Perhaps Myrtle's bathroom? It's not exactly approved Hogwarts curriculum, although Sluggy gave me the pass to find the recipe. I assured him it was 'purely for research'. Of course it isn't just research, the silly man! Why would I need the recipe _and_ a pile of his personal ingredients? I do adore him, but he is so easily swayed, especially when I promised to assist him in organizing an 'after-exams' soiree—not that I don't want to help, of course, I love helping out with the Slug Club….Oh, no! He _tricked_ me, didn't he?"

He grimaced—Slughorn was slyer than Lily gave him credit for. She didn't seem to notice his disapproval and continued.

"He knows it's not research, but he's too cunning to encourage me outright—he would be liable for any accident afterward, of course. That's likely the case, then… ah, and now I've committed to the ordeal. I can't tell him I lied, or he'll be able to give me detention anyway!"

She glared at him as if he were the Slytherin who had connived her, then began again. Or perhaps she'd figured out that he had known that was the case all along.

"Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that if we started it Saturday, it would be ready in time for us to focus on our OWLs—so that I could know which ones to study more for… not all of us have photographic memories, you know, and since I have no clue what I'm aiming to become, I need all the help I can… Severus, are you listening to me?"

He grunted in response, pacing in front of the stacks as his eyes trailed the titles. Oblivious, he continued walking, not realizing she was not behind him until she said his name sharply.

"Severus!"

"What?" He hissed without looking at her, trying to decide how many books he could carry with magic back to their table without Pince getting her knickers in a twist—he already knew he was pushing his limits, but couldn't help but want to devour the entire section.

She leaned against the bookcase behind her, then stood up straight all at once with a determined expression on her face, "I wondered if you had any plans for Hogsmeade this Saturday, so we could brew together… It's Valentine's, you know and I didn't… want to presume that you didn't have, er, a date. Not that I… _well_ , do you have plans or not?"

Severus froze. She'd been babbling on about her failure of a conversation with her head of house about her future occupation, complaining that she had no idea what it was that she wanted to do. Now, she was asking after his romantic life, of all things.

It wasn't such a strange question, except she had mentioned imposing on a theoretical date—as if he would be dating anyone, but her. He hardly spoke to anyone else of the opposite sex.

Why would she think he was? Had someone been paying him attention and he'd not noticed?

Was she jealous?

Granted, he had been working up the courage to ask her the very same as this Saturday was St. Valentine's Day. Although he wouldn't be caught dead in Madam Puddifoot's with the rest of their hormonal house mates, he'd hoped to ask her to peruse the bookstore with him, as they usually did every Hogsmeade weekend.

Perhaps if he'd garnered the courage, he might waste the Galleons and buy her a butterbeer, knowing her affinity for the sugary drink.

And although he had told himself it wouldn't be a date unless she decided it, he had half-hoped it might turn into one. Regardless, spending the day with her would certainly prevent her from accepting someone else's Valentine's invitation. Most notable of her many suitors Potter, the swine, who'd taken to asking her annually since third year, despite her vehement refusals.

So far, he hadn't yet made a public display of asking her this year. Maybe he'd finally gotten a clue… it was doubtful, however. He and Black didn't have a single brain cell to share between them.

"Severus?"

She wanted to spend Valentine's Day with him… albeit, she wanted to abuse his knowledge of potions for her own purposes, but at least she had acknowledged that it was a significant day and that she'd rather be in his company than anyone else's.

He'd paused midway through grabbing a book, and hastily pulled it from its shelf in an attempt to hide his surprise. The thing was charmed, however, and began to flap unceremoniously when he yanked it free.

Taken aback, he struggled with the harping book for a moment, before Lily placed the tip of her wand against the cover and sent it floating, harmless, to the table.

Lily quelled Madam Pince's squawking from beyond with an affirmation that everything was "alright" and instead reached out to take his hand, which had been nipped by the book as it opened and closed rapidly. Severus felt his heart jump to his throat, preventing him from protesting.

"Are you hurt?"

Her hand was so soft, her fingers so tentative and gentle… quite unlike how anyone else had ever touched him. She must have touched him the same so many times, but this—this was different.

It was much, much more.

"I've had worse," he admitted, although he did not mean it the way she interpreted it.

Her bright green eyes darkened for a moment as she remembered his violent father. She did not release his hand, but instead squeezed it harder, as if comforting him. He wished he had the charm to tell her that he had been thinking about how tender her hands were and not how much worse he truly had been hurt before.

His eyes drifted away from hers to glare at the ground. She, too, obviously desired a change of subject as she began to urge, "So, you're free?"

He managed to nod slightly, distracted by her continuing to hold his hand. Didn't she know he only had eyes for one witch?

At his response, her face melted into a smile, "Great! Then you've agreed to help me with that potion?"

"What potion?"

Her eyes darkened further and she huffed. When she attempted to yank her hand away, he found himself instinctively grabbing her fingers tighter with his. Green eyes widened, but she did not struggle under his grip.

"I was merely joking, Lily," he urged sincerely, hoping his use of his given name would smooth her anger. Wanting very much for her to stay with him for the rest of the afternoon as they had planned, but not wanting to appear too eager for her attention, he added, "You no doubt know I think the entire idea idiotic."

"But you'll help?"

"… I suppose."

Her face remained strict for a second, but then she relaxed. She squeezed his hand with hers. Before he could think of a proper excuse, she was taking him by the hand again, leading him… somewhere. He was too focused on their intertwined fingers to notice which direction.

·

 _February 14, 1975_

"It will take a whole month to mature—how ridiculous… but at least it will be finished before revision begins."

"Isn't that fortunate?"

"Hush, you."

Although he had begun to think it a bad idea, Lily was determined to brew the potion and he had agreed to help her, so on Valentine's Day he found himself following her into Myrtle's bathroom, carting ingredients in his cloak. He tried not to think about the fact that he was in a girl's bathroom… at least it was out of order.

The ghost, thankfully, was not present. Perhaps she was wallowing in the drain pipes, or haunting some other bathroom. Dreading her impending return to her place of death, Severus brooded over the cauldron Lily had checked out from Slughorn.

"Will my head of house be expecting a full report on your progress, then?" He teased—there was no possible way he did not know Lily was brewing the potion. He'd practically provided her with all the materials necessary, yet refused to acknowledge that she was breaking the rules.

If it were anyone else, he would have shooed the thought away, but no, it was Lily and she got everything she wanted with a bat of her eyes.

The Gryffindor witch sent him a glare—she was not doing this for extra credit, although he began to tease otherwise.

"Just—be useful and help me with these jars."

"Remind me what I am getting out of this fiasco again?" He muttered as he untwisted the arrangement of ingredients, careful in how he organized them around the cauldron.

"My everlasting love and affection," she reminded him as she produced a knife.

"Ah," he noted, "Risking detention for such a measly reward… do I look like a Gryffindor to you?"

"Ha ha," she huffed, shoving her long hair over her shoulder to prevent it from falling into the cauldron.

As they worked, he tried not to look at her too much, remembering what day it was and that they would be spending it in close quarters, together, in a girl's loo… brewing a stinky potion.

The hour passed in relative silence. Regretfully, when the potion began to boil, he realized that his hair was growing lanky from the steam and thus was forced shoved it away from his face with furious swipes, to prevent the oil from clogging the pores on his forehead.

"Here," Lily paused in stirring the potion, as it was now safe to do so.

She leaned over towards him and pushed his hair back, gathering it in both hands before tying it with a muggle hair band. He stood perfectly still as she did so, hardly breathing as the sensation of fingers combing through his hair was foreign to him.

"There," she praised when she had secured it, smiling at him. He half-expected her to recede backwards or wipe her palms on her skirt, but instead she stayed close, her hands slightly pressing her fingertips into his temples.

"You could have used magic for that," he told her.

"I could have," she agreed, but her eyes were focused on his, bright in that magical way that they were.

"Any excuse to disturb my personal space, eh, Evans?" he grunted.

"Always," she teased towards him.

He smirked at her. She was far too close. Perhaps… perhaps she was waiting for him to kiss her?

The very idea made his stomach feel like lead and he forced his gaze downward—lucky that he had, as the potion was beginning to turn color. She followed his gaze and cursed, grabbing a handful of leaves and tossing them into the bubbles before they turned the wrong shade of green.

"You'd be useless without me," he reminded her, smirking as she fretted over the boil.

"I don't need you to finish it, if that's what you're suggesting," she tossed back, her eyes lighting with a fire he'd seen many times.

The only way he could reply kindly was silence, so he kept his mouth shut. She seemed satisfied with his answer. Inwardly, he brooded… her words were not meant to sting so deeply, but they had, and he realized the mood was rather ruined.

Just as he opened his mouth to change the subject, a great wailing began to erupt from the stall across from them. It continued for the rest of the two hours they needed to treat the potion. When they were finally free of the wailing, both of their heads were aching.

"Only twenty-nine more days, you said?" he teased, trying to boost her spirits.

She glared at him.

He opened his mouth to continue, but she was already huffing away, shaking her head and crossing her arms.

This time, he did not follow her. He'd only muck it up, after all.

·

 _February 15, 1976_

"Oh!"

He smirked down at her—somehow, in the past year, he'd grown taller than her. He hadn't expected to, considering how malnourished he'd been as a child. Being at Hogwarts, however, had helped him gain the height his long legs had promised him.

"Expecting someone else?"

"No, I just…" she pierced him with that gaze of hers, "I didn't think you wanted to be here, is all."

"Well, I am, so don't waste my time gaping."

She opened her mouth, then closed it, "Fine. Help me with this, then…"

He smiled… he wasn't quite ready for them to change, anyhow. The fear that she would reject his feelings was still strong, and he'd rather have her as a friend than not at all.

Still, when her hand brushed his, he wondered what if would be like to hold it against his cheek, to kiss her palm, or feel her fingertips tracing his lips.

The acrid smell that erupted when she lifted the stasis drove all thoughts of romance away. They grimaced at each other, then set to work.

·

 _February 20, 1976_

"Why must you be such an idiot?"

He endured the ranting, although he would much rather not. She always had an opinion where it concerned his behavior with Potter and Black. Eventually, she would tire and fret over his injury, or storm away and leave him in peace.

"I've told you to ignore them. Just… ignore them! Is that so difficult? You ignore me all the time! Yet the minute Black opens his mouth, you are all ears and no brain!"

He resented that—if he were brainless, half the spells he had shot at them wouldn't have existed at all.

"You let them get into your head, Severus, and then you give as good as you get without thinking of the consequences… I know they are horrid to you, but it's such a vicious cycle that needs to be stopped. Why can't you see that?"

His grip strained on the rod he was holding, but he held his tongue. She wasn't taking their sides, but for some reason, the words sounded like betrayal.

"Not to mention, poor Jocasta is in the hospital wing, thanks to you!"

"Thanks to Potter!"

"No!" She roared angrily, accusing him with the knife she wielded, "Because of _you_! It was _your_ spell that hit her, not James'!"

He winced, knowing that Jocasta, although a Slytherin, was friendly with him. Now, however, she would likely hate him forever.

Just like the rest.

Instead of feeling guilty, he focused on her use of Potter's given name. The sound of it on her tongue made him feel slightly nauseous.

"Oh, so its James now, is it?" He blurted, "Have you finally accepted one of his pitiful proposals, or are you just being _friendly_ for friendliness' sake again?"

Her eyes flashed green, "You know what? My relationship with James Potter is none of your business, Severus."

Stunned into silence, he glared down at the potion. He would have left—he would have, but it needed his attention, and she couldn't handle it as the ingredients she was preparing would react adversely. If she were to take over, she might ruin it all.

He brooded, glaring down, refusing to meet her gaze.

So it was him then? Him—bloody Potter. Handsome, of course, and pureblooded… wealthy. Everything he was not.

Of course she would want him instead.

If he were a more emotional person, he would have felt tears prick. Instead, he numbly watched the potion, wishing he could dissolve into the air and cease to exist.

"Sev?"

He did not look up. He couldn't.

"… I would never accept his proposals. You know that. You have to know that."

His eyes lifted to find her staring at him purposefully. Although he shouldn't have, he asked her, " _Why_?"

For a moment, he thought she might not answer, but she eventually deflated, "Because he's a git."

"So am I," he replied darkly.

Her smile was slightly pursed, "That's true, but at least you aren't a dunderhead, too."

It made his lips twitch, hearing her call him a dunderhead. At least there was that.

"Lucky for you," he agreed softly, "If he were in my shoes, you'd both be blown to bits by now."

"Yes, I am lucky…" she murmured, "To have you as my friend, always."

At that, he could say nothing. He merely nodded. A more charming man would have told her that he felt the same, but he could only hope she knew that was how he felt.

For a moment, she stared at him as he brewed. He relished the feeling of her gaze upon him, but did not look up. He didn't want her to see how truly hurt he had been… it would only make her feel bad, and he hated seeing her eyes dark and watery.

When they were finished, he stood up, grabbing both his and Lily's bags as he did so. He made to leave the bathroom in haste, eager for dinner, but the Gryffindor witch seemed to be pondering him rather closely, causing him to halt.

"What?" he asked her self-consciously, glancing down to make certain he wasn't exposed or covered in spilt rat bile.

"Nothing…" she said, "I just don't want to ever lose you. I'm sorry."

He lifted his gaze, bewildered. Hadn't he been the one to have hurt her?

There was no breath left in his throat to ask such a question, as she was suddenly pressing her lips against his cheek. Stunned, he allowed her to grab his hand and lead him out of the bathroom.

She only let go when he parted to head to his own table. Although his house mates hounded him for it days after, he ignored them, knowing that if he got another detention for hexing another student, he might not be able to help Lily brew as often.

He'd never tell her, but he wouldn't change—except if she asked him to.

·

 _February 29, 1976_

"What do you think it will show me?"

"Whatever you want it to," he answered truthfully, "Isn't that how regular fortune telling goes?"

Her green eyes glared. She pulled her knees up to her chest. They weren't brewing—instead they were hiding in the library, away from their respective houses, who were celebrating the Quidditch match outside.

"That's not how the potions works," she insisted.

"If you say so," he answered.

"Yes, I will interpret the 'glimpses' how I want to," she did agree, but began to counter, "But what I see _will_ be the future. The book said so."

"Books are not fact," he reminded her, "And the book said that the future will change on how you perceive the glimpse… sounds questionable to me."

"Hm," she mused, tracing her fingertips across the familiar page of their Charms text, "Why is it you are so quick to accept other subjects, but not Divination? It's magic all the same, that's what you said about the Dark Arts, at least."

He had no comment. She had disapproved of his fascination for as long as she had known what the Dark Arts were. Granted, even she was guilty of using them—hexes, after all, were Dark in nature—at least, that was the excuse he told himself.

"I am also quite adverse to Arithmancy."

She snorted, "Who isn't?"

At that, the mood lifted.

·

 _March 2, 1976_

"Will I be happy, do you think?" She murmured thoughtfully.

He looked up to meet her guys, "I have no idea. What would make you happy… besides an inappropriate amount of chocolate at your disposal?"

Her cheek settled against the top of her knees and she looked faraway when she answered, "Besides that, I think I know… but I'm not yet sure if it is in my best interest."

"How fortunate you're brewing a potion to make the decision for you," he teased, "You'll know every consequence of your decision before you even make it."

She sent him a glare. He smiled at her and the anger melted away.

"You're a git!" She sat up and shoved at him.

"Always."

It was a promise.

·

 _March 4, 1976_

"It's ruined!"

"No—it's not."

"Yes, it is… oh, all this time and effort! How could I have done such a stupid, stupid thing? What was I thinking?"

"You're tired."

"No, I'm not!"

"Yes—you are. We all are… if it's not the Prophet keeping you up at night, it's the exams, or, in my case, Goyle's bloody snoring," he grabbed her wrists and pulled her down to sit beside him, tired of her pacing. She blinked owlishly at him when he continued to chastise, "Tears aren't helping you. Clear you head."

"What?"

"Just… stop thinking for a second. Breathe slowly. Just… float. Remember?"

She stared at him for a time, glanced down at her wrists which were cuffed in his hands. He removed them, but only because the slightly miffed potion needed his attention. After a while, she began to breathe slowly, closing her eyes as he had taught her to.

"Better?" He murmured.

She sighed and nodded, "A little."

"Good."

"It's still ruined."

"Slightly, but now you're clearheaded enough to help me figure out how to fix it."

"Shouldn't we just start over?"

He sent her a quirked brow, "Afraid of a challenge, Evans?"

She snorted, "I'm friends with you, aren't I?"

He glared at her, to which she giggled and grabbed his hand, pulling it into her lap to appraise the burns he had received when the potion had over-boiled—they had foolishly tried to study while tending to it.

"Not now," he told her grumpily, pulling his hand back.

"You're hurt," she crooned.

"Hardly," he noted, "Hand me the moonseeds…"

"Yes, Professor."

They both paused, then burst into laughter at the thought of him ever becoming a teacher.

Eventually, it was stabilized. Somehow, he'd been able to counteract it using what he had learned in the Mastery edition of Potions she had bought him for his birthday that year.

"Oh, thank goodness…" she said, "I was hoping I'd have an answer for McGonagall before OWLs began."

"It's not like you have to know what you're going to do, Lily," he reminded her, "An occupation does not define you."

She nodded.

He appraised the potion, "It might not work the same as you wanted it to…"

"It will."

"How do you know?" He answered… the shade was slightly off—too blue for his liking.

"I just do," she murmured, "Call it 'intuition'."

He rolled his eyes. She returned to bask over the potion, adding the last ingredient before they would leave it once more.

She sighed happily when they set it into stasis, "What would I do without you?"

"Give it a week… you might find you'd be better off."

With that, her expression darkened, "Don't say that."

He ignored her.

"Seriously, Severus," she continued, "Don't. Promise me."

"Promise you what?"

"Just… promise me you won't stop being my friend."

He was as tired as she was—he was studying as hard as he could, knowing that he lacked the influence that he would need for the position that he wanted to obtain. Although others might laugh at him, he desired to become a Dueling Master. It would allow him not only to practice the Dark Arts, but practice them safely.

It would appease both his mother and Lily… the only people who mattered to him.

"Promise!"

He should have ignored her, but instead, he fell under her spell once more.

"Alright, alright," he muttered, "Friends…"

"Always?"

"Always."

"Good, now let's get you to the hospital."

·

 _March 11, 1976_

"What did Rosier want?"

"Notes."

"And you just… gave them to him?"

"Was I not supposed to?"

She kept stirring, pondering the innards.

"He… doesn't like people like me," she reminded him, as if he couldn't forget, "He's called me names."

"I know," he told her.

"Then why give him your notes? Aren't we friends?"

This was the problem with Lily—sometimes, she failed to see how difficult their friendship was for him. Yes, he loved her—that he knew and she knew… but she was Muggleborn and to his classmates, many of them the children of the Dark Lord's followers and some followers themselves, believed her to be an abomination.

She wanted him to gallantly defend her, but unfortunately, that was not in his nature, as it would likely land him in the hospital wing. Lucius would also likely revoke his recommendation to the school Severus had been eyeing for weeks.

In the end, she would understand why he needed Malfoy's help—he was doing it for her, after all.

He decided to lie, "I owed him a favor."

"I see," she said. It was not any better an answer in her opinion.

Still, he knew she was burdened by their hatred of her. She was a kind person, far too trusting and hopeful, and could not fathom how anyone could dislike her simply because of her parentage. He knew she was delicate, but sometimes it amazed him how truly softhearted she was.

Often, he wondered if it would be his undoing.

·

 _March 13, 1976_

"They say He's getting more support," she began, her eyes distant.

They were broaching a topic he did not want to talk about… he'd considered the pros and cons of following the man. Malfoy had promised to vouch for him—a tempting offer, considering it came with fame and money. But some of the ideals the Dark Lord boasted were not… so tempting.

Lily was more important to him. He politely declined, putting off the decision until he was graduated.

"Dumbledore won't allow that," he encouraged.

She seemed only mildly comforted by the thought.

His hand grabbed hers, causing green eyes to lift to his. It was brazen and foolish and maudlin, but he lifted her knuckles to his lips, "I'll hide you away from Him. I will never let Him touch you."

She looked at him with such adoration it made his chest hurt. She didn't remove her hand, nor did she say anything more.

Together, they watched the potion brew and thought about the future—perhaps her fortune telling would be useful after all… if she saw him in it, would she be happy?

Foolishly, he imagined she might.

 **·**

 _March 15, 1976_

"Why did today have to be a Monday?"

"Because _you_ wanted to start on a Saturday. Thirty days gives you a Monday."

"Do you think it will taste horrid?"

"Probably."

"Ugh," she pinched her nose, then stopped to speak to him again, "Severus?"

"What?"

"Do you want to… try it with me?"

He blinked… it was a tempting offer. But he was a much different person than Lily.

"We've only made one batch, Evans," he grimaced from the putrid smell being expelled from the cauldron, "If you want it to work effectively, you'll drink every last drop."

Lily frowned, but allowed him the dignity to decline. She tossed the last ingredients in—a sliver of her baby blanket, symbolizing a fragment of her past, a drop of her blood (hence the restrictedness) which represented the beating heart of the present…

Then she hesitated, glancing at him worriedly.

"Turn around."

"Why?"

"Just… please, Sev."

He sighed, and turned. He did not see what she provided last—it was a promise of the future, which would allow the potion to focus on that which would be most important for her to see.

By the time he tried to sneak a glance, it was already dissolved.

"Quickly," he urged, even as she had already begun to carefully pour the potion, now reduced to a single vial. They had both been excused from their last period to allow them time to get through the Glimpses in time for dinner.

When it was encased in the sparkling opal phial, on loan from Slughorn, Severus felt a surge of panic.

He had ignored it since she had mentioned the potion in the first place, but now he couldn't. He was worried that it might not have the effect he or she wanted—that the future would be darker than she expected. Could she handle it if it did not turn out as she had hoped?

Dark eyes stared at her intently, wondering if she would see him and hate him, if he would do something to drive her away—

Before he could do it himself, she was on top of him, pressing her lips to his chastely, but forcefully, half-straddling him and clutching his face with both hands. He had barely registered the taste of her, sweet and flowery, before she pulled away, leaning backwards yet using his weight to support her.

Her fingers traced his cheek for a moment, searching his eyes.

"Wait—" He reached for the potion, but she pulled it out of his reach, swallowing it in a single gulp.

He only barely caught her as she slumped backward, cradling her limp body to his as he lowered her to the stone, cushioning it with a spell. Her face was peaceful, as if she were sleeping… he laid her to rest, then sat beside her, his eyes never leaving her face, memorizing each curve as if he might never see them again.

·

In the end, his suspicions had been correct. Lily woke an hour later with a great, laborious gasp.

He tried to comfort her, but she was inconsolable. Her sobbing seemed to wrack her entire body. When he held her, she seemed weightless, like a fragile, broken bird, yet every movement was forceful and heavy and burdened. Her weeping warped her voice into tight, hopeless wails which tugged at his heart strings and made him feel hopeless.

When she looked up at him, finally calmed, she kissed him deeply, but the taste of her was ruined by the salt of her tears.

He tried to ask her what was wrong, but she ignored him. She stood and rushed off, without another word.

After she left, he made the mistake of peering into the cauldron. He noticed there was a single drop… It was foolish, and unlikely to work, but he could not deny the opportunity to see what she had seen—to know what it was that had tormented her.

So he took the single drop upon his tongue. Instantly, he was drowning, gasping for breath, reaching for anything to take hold… wondering if he had made a grave mistake and knowing also that he had, he had made a mistake, in lettering her experience it alone.

First, there was emptiness and then a great, resounding sadness… grief he had never thought he would ever feel.

 _Lily_ , he moaned. Oh, how he missed her… But where had she gone?

Then there was a boy, a boy who looked like James Potter, yet with Lily's eyes. He hated that boy. He hated him because as much as he was like his father, he was like her, too… and seeing him reminded him of her. Reminded him that she was gone.

Lily was… no, he wouldn't believe it. She was living and breathing! He had to get back to her.

The thought was taken from him in a single moment, half-forgotten in the haze of pain he was feeling in his chest. He was moving again, quickly, and then he was gasping, breathing heavily as if weight had fallen over his chest.

The vortex was gone and he was lying in a bed, squirming from the amount of blankets the elf had tossed over him. The room was nondescript, but it felt familiar, and comfortable. There were a quartet of photographs beside him—one of a redheaded girl and a black-haired, hook-nosed boy, holding hands and then kissing chastely. The next was of a woman he did not recognize walking out of the frame into the next to comfort the lonely man who was lingering sadly in front of an even lonelier tree. It was strange that they were divided by frames, yet seemed as normal to him as any other portrait he had ever seen… as if they were comforted both together and separately.

It hurt to focus, now, but he had to see them one last time. The third displayed four figures he did not recognize, clutching one another and smirking at the camera. Each of them had sable or black hair. He liked them all, though he hardly could recall there names.

And closest to him, there was a small photo of a baby with shining, brilliant green eyes and a tuft of curled black hair, who rolled onto her stomach, unsmiling yet content, with a gaze just for him.

 _Sollemnia._

The sight of her comforted him in ways his young mind could not describe.

"Severus?"

He looked up. His vision was blurry—when had that happened?

 _Lily._

He could only see a flash of red… it must have been her. He knew no one else who could comfort him in such a way. She was his friend: loyal, kind, smart.

But somehow, the love in his heart felt different… why was it different?

"I've brought someone to see you," she said. Her voice sounded wrong—deeper. Was it age?

"Hello, Grandfather," the youngster at her side urged, knowing he could not find her with his eyes with her so far.

 _Grandfather?_

Of course. It was her—his Sollemnia.

She came to him, close enough that he could see her clearly. When he looked down at her, he could not believe that her eyes were so very green… just like Lily's. Greener than grass, greener than he could ever imagine.

"Chin up," he instructed tersely. In truth, he just wanted to see her eyes more deeply.

She did as she was told, but grudgingly.

He could tell she was frightened and she was so stubborn that he feared she might hold onto that fear and never let it go. But there was also wariness in her that he had seen in his own face many times… a wariness that attributed her the name chosen by her mother.

"Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," she reminded him, biting her lip.

 _Just like her grandmother._ It wasn't his thought, but the man's—the older Severus'. But Lily didn't bite her lip… she chewed her nails, instead.

When had her habits changed?

"Will it hurt?"

The green eyes were undeniable. They shone at him, wide, unwilling to look away, yet burdened.

"No," he told her honestly. She knew too much for such a small thing.

His hands found her cheek, tracing the stray curl that had come undone from her braid. Her hair was so black—blacker than his, if it were possible, and shiny. Her curls were riotous, somehow tamed by her mother, fighting to escape their bindings with every movement. He wished they were allowed to be free… why did he wish that?

"Will you remember me?" She murmured, her voice too full for one so young.

"Always," he promised.

Then he was gone, spinning away in blackness, but he could feel her bury her face in his chest, the tears hot but no longer afraid.

·

He did not get a chance to tell Lily what he saw. Of course, she did not give him the opportunity to, although he often wondered if he would have given the chance.

The next day she switched seats in Potions. On Wednesday, she did the same in Transfiguration. When he inquired through their charmed parchment, she incinerated it. When he saw her in the corridors, she turned in the other direction in the hallway and ignored him. All form of communication, once so full between them, was cut off.

A week later, when he saw her chatting in the hallway with Potter, he knew that her choice had been made. It hurt him, but he accepted it. Whatever made her happy was fine with him… he'd only wished she would tell him why—he only wished she hadn't broken the promise that he had thought had applied to them both.

It made little sense, and that was what hurt him. He knew she was scarred by the potion, and he hated himself for allowing her to go through with it, but had it been so bad?

If he could turn back time, he would take it back. But he was incapable of that.

After a time, his loneliness got the better of him. He began to resent her. It hurt him, the way she had shrugged him off, how she had run so eagerly to Potter. How could such a beautiful future have turned her away from him? Hadn't she seen her—Sollemnia—and realized what they could do together? Hadn't he lived to old age, comforted by the fact that they would live on in her… in that beautiful girl?

But she had died… and she hadn't. How could it be possible? Had he seen more than one future, or was he missing something?

She had kissed him after, too—hadn't that meant something?

He was wrong to assume as such. He was foolish to promise her always, when she would not have him but for a friend, and when she had not guaranteed the same to him. He'd never asked her, but he wished had… maybe, if she had told her sooner, the potion would not have been needed.

But fate was against him. He was not handsome, or kind, or brave. He did not deserve her, but if he had said something, would it be different?

He would never know. He had ruined any chance of that, all on his own.

When she came to his aid that day during OWLs, finally speaking to him yet not really _to_ him, after avoiding him for weeks, he couldn't help himself. He said the word… the one she had hated the most. It hurt her, deeply, he knew… perhaps more deeply than she had hurt him.

And in her eyes, he saw that she'd been waiting for him to say it—as if she had known he would betray her all along.

Had she seen him do it? Was that why she hated him? If so, why not prevent it? Why not just _talk_ to him?

He wouldn't have said it at all, had she not hurt him with her silence. He would have loved her forever, always, as he had promised…

But she didn't feel the same.

Still, even as she rejected him—even when she married the swine, when she bore his son, he loved her. It hurt like hell, but the hope never left him that one day she would find him again… that their transgressions would be forgiven and the future he had seen would come true.

The silence without her was deafening… and it grew louder and louder through the years, as he took the knee to Voldemort, when he killed, when he maimed, when he hurt. When his letters were returned unopened and his soul felt like it had been emptied of all hope. Only when he realized what his mistakes had led to—that he would be her death, did he curse her for letting it happen, and did he allow the silence to turn into something worthy of his love for her.

Had she seen that, too? Had she known it would be him who would betray her?

More than the guilt, he was angry… angry that she would abandon him to make all the wrong choices. But his anger compared little to his fear: the fear that he would lose her, totally. So he turned coats… even though she did not deserve it, he would not let her die without fighting like hell to prevent it.

Foolishly, in youth, he had promised to hide her away, that the Dark Lord would not touch her… and he would not let that promise die, even though his own soul had died the day their friendship had shattered. Even when he knew it impossible, he hoped to keep it, wondering if somehow their future might still exist.

Such a promise was futile. When it broke, on July 31, 1980, he knew instantly that the future was undone. Unfortunately, he did not mourn only her… her son and husband be damned, he mourned for the vision he had had, the one he had seen of their family, and he wept for it, as he never had for their friendship.

Her body was still warm when he found her and he felt the tears flow hotter than they ever had, salty and heavy. The cries he expelled were similar to the ones he had heard from her, that day, when she had peered into the future and seen something too terrible to name, even to him, her dearest friend.

Through the sobbing, he murmured both her name and the name of the girl, their granddaughter, over and over and over…

When he left Godric's Hollow, he knew she would never exist. It was such a tragic realization—she was the very best of the two of them, him and Lily. But the world was cruel and the future was likely to be any different.

It did not deserve her and neither would he.


End file.
